It is late November, Thanksgiving, and the slow rain falls as all day it has fallen. The mists drift in the treetops along Camp Branch. The ewe flock grazes the green slope as in a dream of a painting by Samuel Palmer. There is no wind. It is completely quiet. From the distance comes only the sound of the branch flowing in its wooded hollow, old, old, and new, unidentifying the day and …
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The Cave
Here's a poem which, it would seem, is playing off of Plato's allegory of the cave. I find the final stanza quite provocative, and will return to in a future post ... The Cave Someone standing at the mouth had the idea to enter. To go further than light or language could go. As they followed the idea, light and language followed like two wolves—panting, hearing themselves panting. …